A/N: I had a little extra downtime this week, so here's a second update! You all deserve it!

Chapter 10- Motives

"We are all selfish and I no more trust myself than others with a good motive."

Lord Byron

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Nathan appreciated his little brother's offer teleport him back to Washington, but he chose to return the way he came so Peter could concentrate on setting Sylar's plan in motion. The consequences of a delay in action would be far more dire than explaining a lengthy absence to his security detail. He did have the courtesy to check in with the lead agent to tell her that he was out of his office, but his real intent was to buy himself extra time and provide an alibi in the form of a short stopover. He looked around at the cozy tree lined street to be sure no one spotted his landing and he softly knocked on the door to the second apartment of a walkup. His breath made thin, soft clouds as he exhaled in the cold night air. Winter was well on its way and he briefly wondered how all of the specials who were on the run in the northern climate would fare in the coming months. Certainly many would die of hypothermia and starvation while he kept warm in his thick wool coat and ate his steak dinners, and although he felt guilty he knew it could be no other way.

There was a slight clinking sound as the deadbolt and chain were unlocked and the door opened slightly. Noah looked out with a neutral expression, but just past his shoulder Nathan spotted his handgun- drawn and held in the ready position. He smiled, knowing he was in no danger. "Expecting someone?"

"No, and that's the point." Noah replied, stepping aside to let his unannounced visitor in.

Nathan took a quick look around the sparsely decorated apartment and it reminded him vaguely of Peter's apartment in New York except Noah had a few more creature comforts such as actual furniture. "Sorry, were you in the middle of something?" He asked, noting a public service announcement he filmed on the television urging the public to call the authorities if they suspected anyone was a special. He cringed to see himself on screen because what the ad didn't say was what would happen to the people they turned in.

"If you call eating carry out Chinese an activity." He mumbled, lifting a nondescript white carton with chopsticks buried deep into a pile of noodles. "Chow mien?"

"None for me, thanks." Nathan sighed as he took a seat on an overstuffed chair. Either he was extraordinarily tired or it was surprisingly comfortable. "I just got back from Maria's."

The light from the television reflected off Noah's glasses as he looked up sharply from his dinner. "Really? That was risky. I hope you have a good cover story."

"More or less, but it was long overdue." He seemed a little reticent to go on, but Noah was a man he could trust and it wasn't like his family situation was news to the former company man. "I haven't seen Peter since this insanity started."

Noah gave a small, knowing nod. He knew how important it was to keep whatever family ties that remained intact in good care. "How did that go?"

"Better than it should have, but you know Peter. I could crucify him on the National Mall in front of God and everybody and somehow he would find it in himself to forgive me."

Noah smiled gently. "Sometimes it seems like he's trying for sainthood, but you'd better hope that never changes because you need him as an ally. We all do. We all know what the flipside of that is."

Nathan nodded with a wry smile. "Yeah, well guess who was also at Maria's?"

"Not surprising." Noah casually shrugged. "She used to own him and she treated him far better than he deserved. I think he knows that." He paused to raise his eyebrows. "He sent her a very expensive watch as a thank you gift, so it stands to reason that he would find his way back to her when he gets into trouble. She's probably the only person he knows that will cover for him." He shook his head at the irony of it all. "Did you know he killed Bryant?"

Nathan was dumbstruck. "No!" He finally spat out. "Was this before or after she bought him?" Leave it to Sylar to do something so despicable, but at least in this case he seemed to feel a tiny shred of remorse. It was highly unusual, but encouraging unless he had some long-range plan to do her in when she was no longer useful to him the way he did everyone else. Perhaps the watch was just shiny bait on a very sharp hook…

"Before. Naturally it was Peter that had to break the news to her, but from what he told me it was over Sylar's nearly dead body…literally."

She knowingly kept her husband's murderer in her home and saved his life. It was supremely baffling to him. If it was him and Sylar killed someone he cared about, he would be sure to gouge out his eyes with a toothpick to make him suffer in agony before he died and then put his body through a meat grinder and feed it to pigs, but that was just him."Maybe she's trying for sainthood." It was the only explanation that he could think of. "Anyway, he's heading up a team to fix our...unfortunate...situation."

"So he agreed?" Noah asked mildly surprised. "What did you have to promise him in return? A gold plated, lifetime get-out-of-jail free card?"

"No, he didn't ask for anything and I didn't promise anything."

Noah put his container of noodles down on the coffee table with a sigh. "Then it just means he will take what he wants. He never works for free, you know him as well as I do. If you don't pay him a little now, you will owe him a whole lot more later. Dealing with him is worse than an arrangement with an Italian mob bookie, but he can break a lot more than your legs."

"Maybe." Nathan granted. His experience with Linderman was enough to make him shy of the whole underground racket. "But he's all we got, so we will have to pay whatever price he wants. You know," he squinted and shook his head, "when I was there it just seemed like all he really wanted was his abilities back. I know all about his drive to gain powers, but so far he's been able to ignore it or maybe the fighting is a good way for him to vent, but…" He sighed heavily at memories he wished he could bury deep in his mind. "I was in a war myself in Bosnia and I know the look that was in his eyes- the battle fatigued, weary soldier that keeps fighting almost on autopilot. He won't quit until it's over even though he may want to because he truly believes in what he's fighting for. I never thought I would say this, but Noah, when he said he had a plan to rescue Claire, I believed him. What's more, I trust him. There may be hell to pay after he's done, but you and I both know that he always does exactly what he says he will. He doesn't flinch or second guess himself- once he has a goal and a plan, he executes it and he will not stop until he finishes the job. No matter what he's done in the past, that's the kind of soldier this war needs."

"I agree, but not all soldiers out there are like him or can do what he does. If there were more, this war could have been over as quickly as it started. No matter how powerful or motivated he is, he can't win it all by himself. But as much as I would like for this all to end tomorrow, right now I'll be happy if he can just win this battle." He sat back and flashed his deceptively easy smile. "You know, maybe you should think about promoting him from a private in the infantry to a general. The war needs soldiers, but it also needs officers to lead them."

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West lay on his cot, staring up at the ceiling. He was tired from pacing and general boredom, but the last time he tried to drift off to sleep he was interrupted by the most intense, blood curdling screaming coming from the cell next to his. For as secure and impenetrable the facility seemed to be, sounds sometimes traveled easily through the ventilation system. He didn't know who the person next to him was, but he knew it was a man judging by the pitch of his voice and he also knew that the poor bastard had no idea what was happening to him. Either he genuinely didn't know, or he was incredibly stubborn because he didn't give them any useful information on himself or the resistance. He hadn't heard any sounds from him recently and he wondered if it was because the man had been moved or if they actually killed him. He certainly did ask them to- several times.

The door to his cell opened and he immediately sat up, fully expecting it to be his turn. He only hoped he could be as brave as the man next door not to cave under the pressure and pain. His fear quickly turned to disgust when he noted it was Luke who was visiting him. "How goes it, Judas?" He asked sarcastically.

Luke gave a patient sigh, but really he expected it. "It's not like that, man. They haven't asked me anything about the rebellion and so far, Agent Carter has followed through on everything she promised."

"Of course she has." West sneered. "She has to string you along because the hard stuff will come later. You know, the actual betrayal and being a narc- you have to be comfortable with it and that takes awhile. But with enough tasty dinners and warm clothes you'll come around." He shook his head sadly. "I just can't believe you sold out so cheaply."

"Like a $2 crack whore." Luke smiled. "Look, maybe you like roughing it out there for some higher cause, but I'm just being realistic. We can't win, West. Guys like you and me, we can't change the course of history. Either we get out of the way or get run over. I made my choice, now I'm here to ask you to reconsider yours. This project really is all about trying to end this peacefully. I want it to end and I know you do too."

"Yes, but not at the cost of going back to being a slave! Either we are totally free or we keep fighting until we are. There is no in between."

"Ah, but there is." Luke disagreed. "See, either-or thinking is what keeps this war going when what we need is both-and. Compromise, West. That's all anybody wants."

West slowly shook his head in amazement. "It only took them a few hours to completely brainwash you. That was fast."

"I'm not brainwashed and nobody is forcing me to do this. It's simple math, West. Specials are already fighting as hard as they can and it's like swimming upstream, we're getting nowhere. In my few hours here I've learned something: the government managed to get some of Sylar's blood and they have a drug that will drop him where he stands the next time he decides to attack a facility. Sylar, West!" He scoffed and threw his hands up. "It's game over now if they can take him down. They will kill us all. Negotiation is our only hope of survival."

"Bullshit." West laughed. "They just told you that. I'm sure they would love to kill him, but they can't and they know it."

Luke gave him a dead serious look. "It exists and we can test it out on your girlfriend if you want proof." He smiled at West's shocked expression. "That's right. All this time you've been looking for her and she's been next to you." He jabbed his finger toward the mystery man's cell. "Right over there."

"What did you do to her?" He asked spitefully. He didn't hear her screaming, but perhaps she was just as determined as the man not to give her captors the satisfaction.

"Nothing." Luke sighed patiently. "She's fine. Seriously dude, I wouldn't bullshit you like that. But she is working for the project."

"No way!" West protested. "She wouldn't sell out like that!" He knew Claire better than that…at least he thought he did.

"She is and I can show you. Wanna go look?" Luke invited. "C'mon, Let's take a little field trip." He motioned for West to follow and he pounded on the door for the guards to let them out. "I'm warning you though, you might not like what you see."

"Whatever." West mumbled. He didn't know why Luke was being such a dick, but it was all probably part of some stupid little game. He walked a short distance to the large window in front of the cell next door and paused. Claire was sitting next to another man, laughing and holding his injured wrist lightly in her hands while she poured some water from a bottle over it and used the hem of her shirt to gently wipe away some blood. For his part, the man looked slightly uncomfortable, but he certainly wasn't protesting and he gave her a friendly smile that West thought was perhaps a bit too friendly. "Who is he?" He demanded.

Luke suppressed a small, self-satisfied smile. He squinted to read the dossier posted by the door in the dim light of the hallway. "Damian Montgomery." He broke out into a chuckle. "Dude, he used to work for Nathan Petrelli. Guess being connected didn't help him, but Claire's in there to get his cooperation." He couldn't help himself. "Looks like she's well on her way to getting something else."

West growled as he threw a sucker punch that sent his former friend sprawling on the concrete floor and the guards leaping into action to subdue him. "You don't talk about her like that!" He yelled fiercely even as the guards pressed their knees into his back, making it difficult for him to breathe. "She wouldn't do that!"

Luke smiled as he rubbed his sore jaw. "Dude, again with the reality check. She hasn't seen you in months and she may even think you're dead. Why should she wait for you? Would you?" The smile faded from his lips and he gave West a sincere look that was reminiscent of their early days together. "The world changes even if you don't want it to and you have to accept it. The government knows that specials are the future and they are willing to stop fighting if they can ensure that regular humans won't be harmed. Claire will live forever and you won't always be there. She will find someone else. That's her future and you can fight it or you can accept it. You can keep living in your fantasy world of how you want the world to be or you can see it as it really is. That's all the Chimera project's about."

He gestured for the guards to step away and he allowed West to stand up before he extended his hand in a goodwill gesture. "I want you to be a part of my future."

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Mohinder sat patiently in his seat between Matt and Sylar and marveled at the disparity between them. He had been asked to assist in the event of major catastrophe and he was both honored and a little terrified at the prospect. People deal with crises in many different ways and the two couldn't have been more distinct in their respective approaches to what was happening to them. He along with Peter and Emma watched their patients, ready to intervene at the slightest hint of trouble and it just so happened that Matt's came first. Mohinder knew all about the serum's terrible side effects and he felt compassion for his former roommate as he clenched his temples with his eyes shut tight, moaning and writhing in agony. Emma gave him injections of morphine to ease the pain that felt like a nuclear explosion in his mind and gently rubbed his arms to comfort him, but it didn't seem to help much. She compulsively checked his pulse and blood pressure because she was concerned he may have a stroke. Of all her ministrations, the thing that probably helped him most was the calming sound of her thoughts amid the pain and chaos. Hang in there. I wish there was more I can do for you, but I will do everything I can until you are well again.

Sylar, on the other hand, took a radically different tack. He lay perfectly still on his back, breathing lightly but steadily with his eyes closed as though he were meditating his way through the intense pain that was only reflected in the rapidly pulsating arteries in his neck and slightly pale complexion. Mohinder watched him with curiosity. It would be his natural instinct to tightly control his physical responses even when it would be perfectly understandable to express his discomfort and it was both commendable and a little tragic. The degree with which he could maintain a cool exterior was admirable, but it also meant that he was suffering needlessly when they had the means to make him more comfortable. No one would think less of him for asking for relief from the misery, in fact that was their very purpose in aiding him, but Sylar was notoriously stubborn. Mohinder wondered if he was trying to prove something to those around him or if his aversion to medical attention was born out of his previous experiences with company doctors who ignored the credo of 'do no harm' and used their training to inflict great suffering in the name of science. He himself was once a company doctor and he knew how the greater goal could often obscure the humanity of specials to the point where they were viewed as equipment- no different than mice or monkeys.

Peter was watching Sylar too, but he wore an intensely grim expression. He remembered well what happened the last time and even though his patient appeared to be in little distress compared to Matt, he knew the signs. It was the way Sylar's long fingers would occasionally curl and then tremble slightly as he once again extended them and the fast, shallow breaths that were an almost involuntary coping mechanism common to most people. It was his slightly tense facial muscles and the almost imperceptibly slow grinding of his teeth that let Peter know that all was not as well as it appeared to be. He ran through the list of Sylar's abilities in his head in an effort to correlate them to physical mechanisms so he could predict what problems might arise. Telekinesis and electricity were almost visceral, physical powers that utilized the nervous system so it likely felt as though he still had a chip and it was stuck in shock mode. Sylar once described his lie detection as a tingling sensation in the back of his mind and Peter knew from experience that his IA was almost purely mental, so he probably felt as though he had a fierce migraine as well. Thermonuclear generation would cause an intense burning sensation and those were just the ones he could think of off the top of his head, so add it all together and it was a world of hurt to be sure. When he thought about it, it was actually amazing that he was taking it so well without the aid of heavy narcotics. Then again, suffering of that intensity could well have made him more or less catatonic from sensory overload…

Emma noted Peter's uncomfortable disposition. Though some would view her disability as unfortunate, it did allow her to be more observant of other human behaviors such as slight changes in posture or facial expressions to clue her into what sound could not. It was highly useful because people either wouldn't directly say what was wrong or they would lie about it anyway. She left Matt in Mohinder's care just long enough to stand by her partner so she could speak quietly and not disturb anyone. She lightly tapped his arm to get his attention although she knew that she could have just started speaking and he likely would have heard her. She was just so used to people doing it with her that it had become a habit. "Are you ok?" She asked with a slight smile. "You look worried. Perhaps I can help you?"

Peter gave an embarrassed grin. He didn't mean to be so obvious, but it was just his nature to wear his heart on his sleeve for all to see. "They just don't cover medicine for specials in school and I get tense every time because the same rules just don't apply." He shook his exasperated. "And as if trying to treat someone with an ability isn't bad enough, Sylar has a veritable Pandora's box of powers, so I feel like I have to be extra careful. I mean, what if something goes really wrong and we can't stop it?"

Although some of his words were a little difficult to decipher, she felt as though she got the gist of what he said if not the sentiment behind it. "It doesn't matter that he's special." She confided. "I felt the same way in med school about every person I tried to help, but no matter how hard you try, sometimes things go badly and there's nothing you can do. It's not a reflection on your competence or your skills, it's just fate." She glanced at the man who the news said was responsible for the death of so many government agents and guards. She could see how he was dangerous even if the reports were sensationalized in an effort to get ratings.

She took a deep breath before approaching him and placing her hand on his wrist to take his pulse and found it to be rapid, but steady. His eyelids fluttered, indicating his awareness of her, but he didn't try to stop her from examining him. During her training, she had many difficult patients, but none that were guilty of war crimes and she was doing her best to walk a fine line between respecting his wishes and doing her job. She moved her hand from his wrist to his chest to feel his heartbeat since she had no use for a stethoscope. If she concentrated, the steady thumping of a healthy heart made beautiful, puffy yellowish orange clouds that surrounded her fingers like a mitten while sick ones were more jagged and tended to be a cooler color like bluish green. With enough practice, she had learned to detect even the slightest variation in timing. Although her method was unconventional, she made no more errors than doctors who used the listening devices and Sylar's heart was astoundingly healthy for a man his age. Even though he was still young relatively speaking, early signs of hypertension and atherosclerosis usually appeared in men over the age of 30. Either he was careful with his diet and exercised every day, it was due to one of his many abilities, or he hit the genetic jackpot in terms of resistance to heart disease, she thought to herself. Some people had all the luck. Finally, she placed the back of her hand on his forehead and noted that his skin felt very warm even though his color was a bit washed out, a sure sign of physiological distress. All in all, she would rather have him warm than cold because he would be easier to treat than if he was in shock.

She lingered by his bedside for just a moment debating where his personal line for intervention lie, but it was a place many doctors find themselves in when it came to patient care. He wasn't explicit in his directive aside from nearly dying, but that could mean any number of things. At the moment, he wasn't in danger of systemic organ failure or catastrophic blood loss, so she chose to respect his unspoken wish of being left alone even though she hated to see him suffer. In the end, it was his decision and it wasn't her job to force treatment even if she disagreed with his rationale…whatever it was, so she returned to Matt who had managed to open his eyes just enough to take in his surroundings.

Matt's mind was a swirling maelstrom of random thoughts that drifted to him from all directions, causing his ears to ring and his head to ache. He could only guess that schizophrenics felt much the same, but he knew his tormentors to be real and he hated being privy to the private thoughts of others. Sometimes it was awkward intimate details and sometimes it was disturbing fantasies, but thankfully most people concerned themselves with mundane things like wondering if they turned off the stove before they left the house or endlessly reciting what they had to buy at the store after they left work. It was amazing how most people thought in the same voice they spoke in, making the source easily identifiable. Emma was still trying to silently console him and Mohinder was busy trying to mentally mix chemicals and predict outcomes in his typical British cadence while he absentmindedly watched Sylar. There was a slight buzzing emanating from Peter, but that was because he was also using his ability to read thoughts and two mind readers cancelled each other out much the same way two radio frequencies washed out in interference. Amid it all, the one thing that made him open his eyes was to watch the show that was about to start.

In his dark, husky voice, Sylar's thoughts became almost panicked as his breathing picked up in pace. Keep it together. Ignore it, it will go away. Breathe….breathe…br…..oh shit. He had just enough time to roll onto his side before his stomach writhed violently, sending what remained of his lunch all over the floor and an unsuspecting Mohinder's shoes. Despite his misery and sense of revulsion, Matt still managed to find it funny. "Nice shot, dude." He wouldn't have missed Sylar embarrass himself in front of others for the world. It was an event almost as rare as Haley's comet and he might never see it happen again in his lifetime.

Sylar remained hanging over the side of his bed, panting and trying his best to will his stomach to stop painfully heaving even though there was nothing left to evacuate. He spit and sighed as his head felt as though it were going to explode. He should have known that he couldn't fully contain the overwhelming tide of pain- it was going to come out in one way or another. Well, that was less than graceful. Way to go, now you've lost all respect. At least I got Mohinder, that's my consolation prize I guess…

Mohinder sat looking down at his soiled shoes dismayed. People certainly do respond in different ways to crisis, but he wasn't entirely convinced that Sylar's accident wasn't at least a little bit within his control. The man could focus his telekinesis to such a degree that it was sharper than a scalpel and he couldn't have better aim? He wanted to chide him for doing it on purpose, but he had no evidence and it would look very insensitive on his part. No matter if he meant to do it or not, Sylar would win in the court of public opinion. It just wasn't fair.